The Sand-Reckoner

7

That evening Delia was informed that her brother wished to speak to her in his library. She was somewhat taken aback at the choice of location. Hieron generally received the leaders of Syracuse's army and city council in his dining hall or study, and talked to members of his household wherever they happened to be. The library was his private retreat. She picked her way through the gardens and along the colonnade with a mixture of curiosity and foreboding.

The library was a small room- the book collection of a private individual, not of a city- and it faced onto the smallest of the house's three courtyards. Three of its walls were lined from floor to ceiling with book racks, a neat crisscross of lathes from which the parchment title tags of the scrolls hung down, making the whole room flutter; the fourth wall held the door and a window. The only furniture was a couch, a small side table, and a lampstand. When Delia entered she found her brother reclining on the couch, frowning over a book which lay scrolled open in the light of the three lamps burning on the stand.

"Hieron?" she said, and he looked up with a smile, then sat up, swinging his feet off the couch and gesturing for her to sit. As she did so, she glanced at the open book, then stared at it hard. It was full of geometrical diagrams.

Hieron grinned and offered the scroll to her. The title tag informed her that it was Euclid's Conics, Book 3. She waved her hand at it in refusal and mock terror.

"I don't understand it either," said Hieron. "I was just trying to see if something I saw today was in it. It isn't."

At this Delia guessed the reason for the summons. "You've seen Archimedes son of Phidias?" she asked eagerly. She had told her brother about her discovery as soon as he returned from Messana.

Hieron nodded. "And you're right about him," he said. He rolled the scroll up carefully. "He is a very, very clever young man, and could undoubtedly be of value to the city." The rollers clicked together; he tapped them straight and slid the book into its parchment case. "The question is," he went on in a low voice, "how valuable is he, and how much am I willing to pay for him?" And he rested the scroll against his chin, eyes fixed thoughtfully on nothing.

"Did the catapult work?"

"Oh, the catapult!" said Hieron dismissively. "Yes, it works. As far as your friend is concerned, it's a good medium-sized catapult, and he hopes it will earn him fifty drachmae and a job alongside Eudaimon."

"Oh," said Delia, disappointed. "Alongside."

Hieron lifted his eyebrows. "I'm keeping Eudaimon. I can't afford to lose any engineers just now, and his work is acceptable when he has a machine he can copy. Now he can copy Archimedes'. Once he understands what it is he's copying, I expect he'll be downright enthusiastic about it. It will take him a while to work it out, though, and unfortunately he's going to have to be kept on a tight leash while he does. That's in hand." The king tapped the scrolled book against his chin again. "The question is, what am I to do with Archimedes?"

"Hire him, of course!" exclaimed Delia.

Hieron shook his head and sighed. "As what?"

"As an engineer- what else? And if you expect Eudaimon to copy from him, you ought to make him Eudaimon's superior."

"Yes, but do I gave him a rank and salary equal to Eudaimon- or to Kallippos? Or do I make up my mind that I'm going to keep him in Syracuse whatever he costs, and plan accordingly? I was hoping, sister, that you, who know the man better than I do, could give me a bit of advice."

Delia stared. "I-" she began; then changed it to, "But you said it was just a good medium-sized catapult!"

Hieron shook his head. "I said, as far as he's concerned. It's a one-talenter with a range of five hundred feet and an accuracy equal to the best arrow-shooter, and it can be pivoted with one hand. Archimedes is too young and inexperienced to realize how exceptional it is, but Kallippos didn't know whether to go wild with admiration or with jealousy." There was a pause, and then the king added, with a smile, "Being Kallippos, of course he did neither. He just scowled at it and hissed. But I'd bet anything he's in the workshop right now trying to replicate the pivot."

"I don't think I can advise you at all," said Delia, in a small voice. "I didn't expect- I just thought it was a matter of him replacing Eudaimon. Is he really that good?"

Hieron nodded seriously. "He may be even better. I've asked him to give a demonstration of ideal mechanics. He offered to move a ship single-handed. I'll see how that turns out before I make up my mind what to do about him."

"I don't understand," said Delia after a moment. "Why do you have to make up your mind about him now? Why not just- well, give him a job and keep promoting him?"

Hieron shook his head. He hitched himself up on the couch and turned himself to face her squarely. "Imagine I'm him."

"You don't look a bit like him," she said, smiling.

"Now, what is that supposed to mean? You think I should lose some weight? No, imagine I'm the son of Phidias, a mathematical engineer raised by a mathematical astronomer, the sort of man who amuses himself during his idle moments by working out theorems too advanced for Euclid. I studied in Alexandria at the Museum. I liked it. I didn't want to come home. But there's a war starting, my father's ill, and my family depends on me. I am a dutiful and affectionate son. I come home, I look for work making war machines, I find it. Right so far?"

"I think so," agreed Delia, beginning to be intrigued. "You're certainly right that he liked Alexandria. He talked about it even to me."

"Everyone Agathon spoke to about him mentioned it! He was apparently supposed to come home two years before he did. Don't look so surprised- you're the one who set Agathon onto him. All right, my first catapult has passed its trial and I've happily agreed to work for what Leptines offered me. I make some very large, very advanced catapults; I also produce countermeasures to seige towers and mines. I'm good at that, of course- the key to siege machinery is the accurate calculation of size and distance, and the key to that is geometry, at which I am adept. At first I don't notice that I'm exceptional, because I haven't made war machines before and I don't have any standard of comparison. But before long it dawns on me that none of the other engineers in the city can do the things I'm doing. And eventually the fame of my machines spreads, and other cities and kingdoms try to hire me. Now: am I a loyal citizen?"

"I think so," said Delia. "After all, you did come home when you heard about the war, and you hurried to place your abilities at the disposal of the city."

"Ye-es- but on the other hand, making catapults is the easiest way for an engineer to earn money during a war, and with my father ill my family needs money. Still, we'll say I'm a loyal Syracusan as well as a dutiful son. I reject the offers of Carthaginian Akragas and Roman Tarentum; I scorn Cyrene and Epirus and Macedon- but I feel aggrieved. My family's not rich, my younger sister is of an age to marry and needs a dowry, and I know that I'm worth more than I'm getting. Besides, it's mathematics, not war machines, that is my soul's passion: the yoke frets me. When one of my old Alexandrian friends writes to tell me that King Ptolemy would give me a job in Egypt- five times the salary and half the work- I accept it, take my family, and go. Any comments?"

Delia frowned. "You wouldn't abandon your city in time of war!"

"Maybe we'll be out of the war by then: gods, let us be! But if we aren't, won't it mean that I'm eager to take my family out of danger? Particularly when it means returning to a place I love and never wanted to leave. Besides, Egypt is an ally: serving her isn't betraying Syracuse."

"Would Ptolemy really offer that much?"

"Oh, that's certain!" exclaimed Hieron in surprise. "Ptolemy's spent a fortune on investigating catapult design, and his advisers perpetually scan the horizon for improvements. And Egypt is rich."

"Well then," said Delia, smiling with satisfaction, "you should offer him more from the start, so that he's got no cause to feel aggrieved and discontented!"

Hieron took a deep breath. "Perhaps. But start again. My catapult has passed its trial, and I'm made the equal of Kallippos and paid two or three times as much as I expected. On the strength of this, I can arrange for my sister to marry a man of good family, and perhaps marry a woman of good family myself. I become a citizen of some standing. I have wealth, I have respect. I'm grateful to the city. Even when I realize that my reward is merited, I'm still grateful, because the city recognized me before I recognized myself. When the offer from Egypt comes, I reject it…" Hieron paused, then went on softly, "Or do I?" He stood up suddenly and crossed the room to the book rack. He ran one plump finger down the shelves, then put the scroll of Euclid's Conics back in its place. "The thing I don't know," he went on quietly, "is whether he's merely very good, or invaluable. If he's merely good, treating him generously should be enough to keep him. But if he's what I think he might be, he'll be off to Alexandria eventually however much I pay him- unless I take steps to prevent it. Ptolemy can offer him the Museum, and that's something for which I have no substitute. So perhaps I would do better to save my time and money, treat him as nothing out of the ordinary, and profit by what he's willing to do before he leaves. Or perhaps- perhaps I should decide to keep him whatever he costs, and start chaining him to Syracuse now, before he can realize his own value and assert his freedom." Hieron dropped back down on the couch and put one foot on the cushions beside Delia. "So, what do you think, sister? Is he merely a clever young man, or is he inspired by the Muses?"

"I don't know," said Delia, low-voiced in confusion. She had imagined herself drawing her brother's attention to merit, and watching proudly as the merit was rewarded. Hieron, however, was not talking about reward, but of use, even of exploitation. She remembered Archimedes laughing with excitement at the thought of what his friends in Alexandria were doing, and suddenly regretted that she had mentioned him to her brother at all.

"What's the matter?" asked the king.

"You talk about him as though he were a slave," said Delia uncomfortably.

Hieron shrugged. " 'One man is my master,' " he quoted softly,

" 'Custom, yours- and he masters a myriad others too.

Some are slaves to tyrants, tyrants to fear.

Men are slaves to kings, kings, to the gods, and gods, to Necessity: for Necessity, you see, endows all things with natures great or less and so forever is master of us all.'

"Although," he added, in a more normal tone, "I didn't feel like a king's slave even before I was a king myself, and tyrant as I may be, I don't think I'm slave to fear. But I'll grant the poet Necessity and the gods." He smiled at his sister. "Don't worry," he added. "I'm not going to hurt your fellow aulist. In fact, I've invited him to dinner."

Archimedes was late for the dinner party. he had spent the day at the naval docks, preparing his demonstration of ideal mechanics; when he did not come home to change his clothes late in the afternoon, Marcus was sent to fetch him. The slave found his master covered in dirt and soot and smelling strongly of mutton-fat pulley grease, perched on the roof of a ship shed fixing a pulley to the main roof beam.

Marcus hauled him down and bore him off to the public baths, ignoring the enthusiastic attempts to explain the system of compound pulleys and wheels- "toothed wheels, Marcus, so they won't slip"- by which Archimedes expected to move a ship. He saw to it that his master was washed and barbered, then brought him home, where a frantic Philyra was waiting.

"You're going to be late!" she told him furiously. "You're going to be late for dinner with the king! Medion, how do you expect him to pay you if you're going to be rude to him?"

"But he's the one who ordered the demonstration!" protested Archimedes, blinking.

Philyra gave a shriek of frustration and hurled his good tunic at him. "You never care about anything except your stupid ideas!"

Arata, calmer by nature and more resigned, ignored her children's quarrel and drew Marcus aside. "You go with him tonight," she ordered quietly. "But be careful."

Marcus looked at her with narrow-eyed reserve. He'd guessed that he'd be ordered to accompany Archimedes to the king's house. A guest did not arrive at a dinner party carrying his own flutes, like a hired musician: a slave had to act as porter, and he was the most natural slave for the job. But- be careful? "Is there some special reason for caution, mistress?" he asked.

Arata sighed and brushed back a wisp of graying hair. "I don't know," she said slowly. "But- there have been these people asking questions about my Archimedion. I suppose it's just because of the catapults, and understandable- but I don't like it, Marcus. Who can tell what's in the mind of a tyrant? Watch what you say to them in the king's house."

"Yes, mistress," said Marcus grimly.

She smiled. "I know I can trust you," she said. "You've served us well, Marcus. Don't think I haven't noticed."

Marcus hefted his shoulders uncomfortably and looked away.

When they finally reached the king's house, Archimedes was ushered into the dining room, where the king was already reclining, along with his father-in-law, Leptines, and two army officers (one of them Dionysios), three Syracusan noblemen, and Kallippos- with Archimedes, a conventional total of nine diners. Archimedes was shown to the lowest place on the couch to the left of the table, the most junior place for the youngest guest.

Marcus was led to a workroom which adjoined the kitchen. Most of the other guests had been attended by their own slaves, and the narrow dirt-floored room was packed with a small crowd. Most were men of about Marcus' age, dressed plainly, though one pretty, long-haired boy in a fine tunic had taken the only stool and sat sniffing disdainfully at the others. Marcus returned the boy's look of contempt: there was no doubt why that one was wearing such fancy clothes.

"Sit down," said the king's doorkeeper genially; he had been the one who showed Marcus to his place. "What's that you're carrying?"

Marcus settled on the floor and placed the armful of flute cases on his lap- there were four of them. "My master's auloi," he said neutrally. "He was asked to bring them."

The pretty boy tittered. "He's the flute boy, is he?"

"That's enough!" ordered Agathon sternly. "Several of the other guests have brought instruments, too. If you give those to me, fellow, I'll see they're put safe with the others."

"I can look after them," replied Marcus.

The slaves had been provided with a plain meal of bean soup and bread, and someone helped Marcus to a bowl. He sat back and began to eat in silence, careful not to drip on the flutes.

The doorkeeper appeared in no hurry to get back to his lodge. He leaned against the storeroom wall, crossing his arms. "You usually look after his flutes?" he asked casually.

Marcus gave a grunt of assent.

"Been with your master long?"

"Been in the family about thirteen years," replied Marcus evenly.

"Heard he went out to Alexandria. You go with him?"

Marcus gave another grunt, noting to himself that Arata had been quite right: they were trying to probe him.

"I'd like to go to Alexandria," said one of the other slaves enviously. "What's it like?"

Marcus shrugged and concentrated on bean soup.

"This fellow's some kind of barbarian," remarked the boy, sneering. "He doesn't know enough Greek to describe it."

Marcus cast him an irritated glare, then returned to his soup.

"What sort of barbarian are you?" asked the doorkeeper.

"Samnite," said Marcus firmly. "And freeborn."

That was where everything began to go wrong. One of the other slaves gave an exclamation of delight and began speaking rapidly in Oscan. Marcus stared for a moment in horror. He understood Oscan, but to try to speak it would betray his complete lack of a Samnite accentwhich this speaker definitely possessed. He interrupted the flood of words with a hasty explanation, in Greek, that it had been so many years since he spoke Oscan that he'd forgotten his native tongue.

"I thought you said you'd only been a slave for thirteen years!" protested the disappointed Samnite.

"No, no, longer than that!" said Marcus. "Much longer. I had a couple of other masters- soldiers- before I was sold to my present master's father." That was true, too, though he had not had them for long.

"You were enslaved by the Romans?" asked the Samnite.

"Yes," agreed Marcus.

"May the gods destroy them!" said the Samnite. "I, also." He offered Marcus his hand.

Marcus made a vague gesture toward it and spilled soup on the flute cases. He swore. The Samnite helped him mop up; the pretty boy giggled. The doorkeeper just stood there watching with cynical eyes.

"What's your name?" asked the Samnite; and, when Marcus told him, exclaimed, "You shouldn't use the name a Roman gave you! Your father must have named you Mamertus- that is the name you should keep."

"I was sold as Marcus," said Marcus. "I can't change that now."

The Samnite made a disparaging remark about Greeks- in Oscan- then began questioning Marcus about where in Samnium he came from and when he had been enslaved. Marcus sweated and lied, horribly aware of the doorkeeper smiling. Luckily, the Samnite was soon wholly engaged in recounting his own history and did not probe Marcus'. But he could not be got rid of. Even after the other slaves settled to a discussion of the war and prices instead, the Samnite clung to Marcus' side and rambled on about the wonders of Samnium and the wickedness of the Romans. Marcus ached to tell him to be quiet, but did not dare.

After what seemed an eternity, the king's butler came in with a basin of surprisingly good strong wine for the slaves. He gave Marcus a hard look. "You're the slave of that new engineer?" he asked, and, when Marcus admitted that he was, the butler demanded furiously, "Does he always draw on the table?" which sent the pretty boy into floods of giggles. No sooner had he settled than the Samnite started up again.

After another eternity, however, another of the king's waiters appeared to announce that the guests were ready for some music. Marcus picked up the flutes and headed for the dining room in a relieved rush. He did not care where he spent the rest of the evening, so long as it was away from the Samnite- and the door-keeper.

Archimedes had not been enjoying the dinner much more than his slave. When he first arrived, Hieron had asked him how the preparations for the demonstration were going. He'd made a mistake: he'd answered. The preparations were going very well, the project was tremendously interesting, and he was ready to jump and down with excitement. He told the company all about the compound pulleys and toothed wheels, and went on to the principles of the lever and the mechanical advantages of the screw; he sketched diagrams on the table in wine, and flourished table knives and bread rolls to illustrate points. Hieron and the engineer Kallippos asked occasional informed and interested questions, so he did not at first notice that the rest of the company was regarding him as though he were a dead earwig that had turned up in their soup. When he finally did notice, it was halfway through the main course. Then he realized that he'd been speaking virtually without a pause for half an hour, that the other guests were watching him with expressions ranging from outrage to stark disbelief, and that the butler and slaves were glaring at the mess he had made on the table. He went crimson and fell silent.

He kept quiet for the rest of the meal, too embarrassed even to notice what food he was eating. Leptines the Regent and the city councillors discussed finance, with occasional interested comments from the king; the army officers and Kallippos discussed fortifications, again with occasional comments from the king. Archimedes felt ignorant, young, and extremely stupid.

Eventually, however, the slaves brought in the dessert course of apples and honeyed almonds, and Hieron sat up and poured out a few drops of unmixed wine, the offering to the gods which closed the meal. This was supposed to be the moment when the most pleasant part of the dinner party began, when the food was out of the way and the participants could sit about drinking and talking and listening to music.

"My dear friends," said Hieron, as the slaves hurried about refilling cups, "I thought that, given the tense and unhappy situation in which our lovely city finds herself, we might cheer ourselves with a bit of music. For those gifted by the Muses, making music is surely a greater pleasure even than listening to it, so, as several of you are accomplished musicians, I've invited you to bring your instruments. What do you say? Shall we brighten the night with song?"

The party naturally agreed, and presently a number of slaves, including Marcus, hurried in with boxes or canvas-wrapped bundles. Archimedes was surprised to see that Leptines the Regent was handed a kithara and Kallippos a lyre. One of the city councillors had a barbitos- a bass lyre- and one of the army officers a second kithara. Archimedes himself was the only aulist. He took his flute cases nervously, then shot Marcus a startled look: the cases were sticky, as though something had been spilled on them. But the slave was at his most impassive and didn't respond to the look by so much as a blink. Archimedes hesitated, then opened all four sticky cases, inserted reeds in all four auloi, and tied on his cheek strap.

"Captain Dionysios," said Hieron, smiling, "I know you have a very fine voice. Perhaps you could favor us with… what about the 'Swallow Song'? We all know that, don't we?"

Everyone did. Dionysios son of Chairephon, looking slightly less comfortable in the king's house than he had at the Arethusa, stood up, waited for the scuffle of the instrumentalists to abate, then raised his head and began the old folk song:

"Come, come, swallow,

Come bring back the Spring!

Bring us the best season,

White-belly, black-wing!"

Marcus had succeeded in slipping out the far door into a garden, and when the music started he sat down beneath a date palm to listen. The night air was pleasantly cool after the hot sweatiness of the workroom, and the singing carried out clearly from the lamplit dining room. Dionysios did indeed have a fine voice, a clear strong tenor. Leptines' accompaniment was a bit too formal for a folk song, but the other players caught the spirit of the music quickly, especially the barbitos player, who was very good. Archimedes, Marcus noted, had chosen the tenor and soprano auloi: tenor for the melody, soprano for an embroidery of swallowlike chirps which swirled and swooped above the melodic line. It went well, and when the song ended, there was a ripple of applause.

There was a rustling among the ornamental shrubs as the next song started, and someone else came through the dark garden; the care with which the figure eased its way through the under-growth made Marcus certain that it was a woman even when she was no more than a shadow on the other side of the courtyard. She did not notice Marcus until she almost stumbled over him. Then she demanded in an angry whisper, "Who are you?"

Delia was in a temper. She had spent much of the afternoon resenting the convention that barred her from attending the dinner party. The whole world might agree that respectable girls did not recline at table for men's parties, still less come in after the meal was finished and offer to play the flute- but she differed with the world on this and many other points. Now she had come quietly to listen to the music, and here was somebody or other standing watch to prevent her!

But the lumpish shape under the date palm whispered back, "Excuse me. I'm the slave of one of the guests. I wanted to listen to the music."

"Oh," said Delia. Nothing to do with her, then- and she could hardly object to someone else doing what she had come to do herself. "You may stay," she conceded.

She retreated a few steps to a stone bench under a grape arbor, and for a time they both listened in silence. The folk song was followed by an aria from Euripides- Leptines' formality came into its own- then by a drinking song, then by a lament. There was a pause, and then suddenly a duet between the barbitos and the auloi sprang into the still air- a fiery cascade on the strings and a swirl of notes from the flute so thick and fast that the ear struggled to follow them. The barbitos lit up the night; the flutes danced around it, now following the melody, now countering it, and suddenly, in the final phrases, blending with it in a shocking and breathtaking harmony. There was a moment's silence, then a thunder of applause.

The slave gave a satisfied sigh. Delia felt a sudden sympathy for him: banned, like her, from the feast, but sitting outside in the dark to drink in the music. "Whose slave are you?" she asked, remembering to keep her voice low. The music had stopped for the moment, as the guests drank more wine, and she did not want to be overheard.

"Archimedes son of Phidias'," said Marcus. Ordinarily he would have added his own name, but at the moment he was wishing that he were called something nondescript and Greek.

"Oh!" exclaimed Delia.

Marcus caught the note of recognition in her voice and set his teeth angrily. The whole royal household must have been discussing Archimedes! He had no idea who this woman was, but the way she had granted him permission to stay had marked her out as free and important.

After a moment, Delia said warmly, "Your master's flute-playing is superb."

Marcus turned the remark this way and that in his mind and concluded that it was harmless. He gave a grunt of agreement. "The fellow on the barbitos is good, too," he added.

There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of voices talking in the dining room and the buzzing call of a scops owl from some corner of the garden. Delia gazed intently at the slave's hunched black shape, struggling with an urgent desire to speak to him, to tell him something of importance… but what? She could feel it there, an undefined tension within herself, crying that she should make use of this providential encounter to warn Archimedes that…

She told herself not to be ridiculous. Warn Archimedes, against her tolerant, generous, much-loved brother? The worst Hieron was going to do was pay Archimedes no more than the salary agreed! Perhaps that was the message she really wanted to send: Don't sell yourself too cheap!

But with that thought she understood suddenly that she did not want Archimedes to sell himself at all. Not even to Hieron and Syracuse.

"Your master…" she said finally, not knowing how or even whether to begin. "Is he a good master?"

Marcus had scrutinized this question, too, before he was aware of it, and discovered that it was difficult to answer. It was, in a way, the wrong question- he very rarely thought of Archimedes as his master at all; when he did, he resented him. But most of the time he thought of Archimedes simply as Archimedes: a phenomenon exasperating, astonishing, and unparalleled. "I don't know," he said, surprised into honesty. "I think most of the time he forgets that he is my master. Does that make him a good master or a bad one?"

Delia made a noise of impatience. "Do you like him?"

"Most of the time," he admitted cautiously.

"Listen, then," said Delia. "Tell him I wish him well. And tell him… tell him that my brother is waiting to see how this demonstration of his turns out to decide what offer to make him. If it goes well he needs to be more careful than he does if it goes badly."

Marcus stared at her. In the night shadows of the garden, he could make out nothing but the gleam of eyes in a pale face. Her brother. "I don't understand!" he said in bewilderment. Then, urgently, "Lady, if the king suspects my master of anything…"

"Nobody suspects him!" said Delia. She was Syracusan enough to understand that the first emotion inspired by a tyrant's interest was fear. "Don't think that! Hieron wouldn't. It's just that Hieron thinks he may become invaluable, and there may be something in the contract that…I don't know, that may bind him in a way he might later regret. Just- ask him to be careful." She stopped, biting her lip. Now that she had delivered it, the nature of her warning seemed to have altered. Night and the unexpected opportunity had tricked her into a betrayal, a breach of the loyalty she owed to her brother. Her face went hot and she felt all at once sick with shame. She jumped to her feet. "No!" she said, in a fervent whisper. "Don't say anything to him at all!" She turned and blundered off through the dark garden as though the slave might chase after her.

Marcus remained under the date palm, too stunned to move.

After many more songs, the party ended, and Marcus slunk back into the dining room to collect the flutes. He found Archimedes busy discussing modes with the barbitos player; the barbitos itself had been collected by the pretty boy, who amused himself by sneering at Marcus as they both stood waiting for their masters to finish talking. Marcus was intensely relieved when the discussion finally ended and they were able to leave the house.

Archimedes had largely forgotten his humiliation early in meal: his flute-playing had been a success. The barbitos player in particular had been very gracious, and said that they must play together again. Since the barbitos player was one of the richest and most important men in the city, well known for his patronage of the arts, this was gratifying. Not that it mattered, Archimedes told himself- he was a democrat, after all- but still, it was gratifying. He set off down the road at a good pace, swinging a corner of his cloak and humming.

Marcus hurried after him, clutching the flutes and looking grim. When they reached the main road, the slave ran up beside him and said in a low voice, "Sir, something happened up there that you should know about."

"Mmmm?" said Archimedes, without paying attention.

"I was listening to the music in the garden," went on Marcus, "and the king's sister came up to listen as well, and-"

"Delia?" asked Archimedes, stopping short and turning to Marcus. The moon had risen and shone full into the wide avenue, and it showed plainly his look of delight.

Delia? thought Marcus, in disbelief. "I don't know her name," he said in bewilderment. "But she was the king's sister. She said to tell you-"

"Delia gave you a message for me?" cried Archimedes, even more delighted.

Marcus stared at him. He remembered now the girl's hesitant speech, and the way she had run off after trying to deny her message. In retrospect it seemed very like a maiden's first shy steps toward love. "Perii!" he exclaimed, surprised into swearing in his own language. "No wonder the king's been sending people to spy on you!"

"What?" said Archimedes, surprised in turn. "On me? Don't be ridiculous! There's nothing for anyone to find out."

"May the gods forbid that there should be anything between you and the king's sister!"

"I just met her twice in the king's house when I went there to see about the catapult," said Archimedes stiffly. "She plays the aulos too, and we talked about it. She's very good. What was the message? You said I should know about it."

Marcus rubbed his hands through his hair. Maybe it was that innocent, he thought- but the fact remained that the king's sisterthe king's sister! — was sending Archimedes clandestine warnings about her brother's intentions. What did she see in him? He wasn't particularly good-looking, wasn't rich, and certainly possessed no polished seducer's charm. But in Alexandria he had won the favor of La[i..]s, and now there was this!

He could not even tell Arata about it- a thing he regretted, because he knew she was concerned about the king's spies and he had deep respect for her good sense. But he could not inform his master's mother, of all people, about his master's romantic follies!

"Well?" demanded Archimedes.

"She said to tell you that she wishes you well," he said at last, "and she warns you that if your demonstration goes well you must be careful, because her brother may try to get you into a contract that binds you to something you might later regret."

Archimedes beamed. "That's wonderful!" He began walking again, this time with something of a swagger.

"Wonderful? Didn't you hear what I said?" demanded Marcus furiously.

"Yes, of course. Delia wishes me well, and the king is going to offer me a contract if my demonstration goes well. I thank the gods!"

Marcus groaned.

"What's the matter now?"

Marcus regarded his bright-eyed assurance and groaned again. "Nothing," he said despairingly. "Nothing at all."

In the King's house, Hieron was sitting in the doorkeeper's lodge, feet up on the arm of the couch, sipping a cup of cold water and discussing the evening with Agathon, as was his custom after a dinner party. He listened to his guests, his doorkeeper listened to his guests' slaves, and afterward they compared notes; it was a technique that had often proved valuable. The doorkeeper had revealed that the slave of one of the officers was worried that his master had been drinking too much, while one of the councillors had been spending a great deal of money lately.

"And Archimedes' slave?" asked the king. "Anything useful from him?"

Agathon snorted. "I think somebody must have noticed that we were asking about his master. He arrived determined that he, at any rate, was not going to tell us anything. Once the music started he slunk off and hid in the garden so that he wouldn't have to talk to anyone. But he was claiming to be a Samnite, and he's quite plainly a Latin."

"You're sure of that?"

"Oh, yes. His name's Marcus, and when he found out that Aristodemos' slave is a real Samnite, he was horrified." Agathon gave a cackle of laughter. "He had to pretend he'd forgotten how to speak Oscan, and he was such a poor liar it was pitiable."

The king frowned. "Has he had access to the workshops?"

"I'll check it," said Agathon at once. "But he's been in Phidias' household for thirteen years, and my impression is that he's loyal to his master."

Hieron nodded thoughtfully and took a sip of water. "Probably no use," he said. "But one never knows. Keep an eye on him."

"Yes, sir," said Agathon. He watched his master for a moment, then said, "And you, sir? What did the guests think about the war?"

Hieron stretched and sat up. "We did not discuss it."

Agathon raised his eyebrows. "That must have been difficult."

Hieron grinned. "Not too much so. Archimedes discussed ideal mechanics from the eggs through to the turbot. After that the other guests were perfectly happy to talk about anything nonmechanical. It needed very little steering."

Agathon cleared his throat nervously. "Sir…" He stopped.

"What?" asked Hieron.

When Agathon did not answer, the king leaned forward smiling and said, "Do you want to talk about the war, Aristion?"

It was an old nickname- the diminutive of "best" for Agathon's proper name, which meant "good." The slave plucked courage from it, met his master's eyes, and said, "What's going to happen, sir?"

Hieron sighed. "Whatever is fated, my friend. But what I hope for is that once the Romans have blunted their teeth on our defenses they'll offer me better terms than they offered at Messana."

Agathon sat silent for a long moment. It was stark hope, and severely limited. "There's no hope from the alliance, then," he said at last. "No hope of victory."

"There is always hope," replied Hieron evenly, "but I don't expect anything, no. Carthage has not made terms with Rome and has not moved openly against us, and as long as that's true I will continue to speak in public as though she were our steadfast ally. But the Carthaginians had a fleet which was supposed to be guarding the straits, and it notably failed to stop the Romans from crossing to Sicily. And while we were besieging Messana, the Romans negotiated with me and with the Carthaginians- separately. When I suggested to my allied commander that I send someone to observe his negotiations and he send someone to observe mine, he turned me down. And when the Romans attacked us, the Carthaginians did nothing. The enemy had two legions, Agathon- ten thousand of the fiercest fighters in the world. They quick-marched out of the city and attacked our siege works. We threw them off and chased them halfway back to the walls. If the Carthaginians had attacked the Romans in the flank as they retreated, it would have been a real victory. But they did nothing- nothing! Drew up their troops to defend their own camp, and stood watching. Oh, afterward Hanno sent a messenger congratulating me on my victory and explaining that he had not had time to arrange his forces, but it was perfectly clear from that battle how Hanno intends to fight this war. He hopes to use us to weaken the Romans and the Romans to break us, and to claim Sicily for Carthage when all is done. So I disengaged under cover of darkness and came home- Don't repeat any of this, Agathon, my dear. I will call Carthage my ally as long as there is any chance of her remaining so. And there may be something to be done at Carthage. There are always factions: I have some friends there and Hanno has some enemies."

"What terms did the Romans offer at Messana?" asked Agathon bleakly. They both knew that without Carthaginian help, the best Syracuse could hope for was survival.

"The same that they offer their Italian 'allies,' " replied Hieron dismissively. "We accept a garrison and send troops to aid them in their war. Oh, and pay five hundred talents of silver, to compensate the Romans for their trouble and expense in making war upon us. Highly unpleasant man, Appius Claudius." He took another sip of water. "Any comments?"

Agathon sighed unhappily and rubbed his nose. "They're saying in the city that the Carthaginians have betrayed us."

Hieron gave a rueful snort. "Didn't take them long to work it out! They're not panicking though, I hope?"

"No, sir. They've seen you behaving as though there's nothing to worry about, and they still hope. I suppose you're right not to confirm their fears."

"I'm so glad you approve! Shall I tell you what my hopes for this city's survival rest upon?"

Agathon nodded silently. Hieron looked down into his half-empty cup of water and said softly, "Walls, Agathon. Walls and catapults. The Romans are almost unbeatable on an open field, but they don't have much experience in siege work. Let them lay siege to Syracuse and die before our walls. Let them understand how much it will cost them if they want to break us. Then let them give us some terms we can accept." He emptied the cup.

"So that's why you're so interested in Archimedes son of Phidias."

"I'd be interested in him under any circumstances," said Hieron, getting to his feet and setting the cup down. "If I weren't interested in having the best engineers available, I wouldn't deserve to be king. But I admit, at the moment it cheers me just to see the fellow. The Romans aren't used to big catapults, and even a one-talenter will frighten them- as much as they can be frightened by anything in war, which I suppose isn't much." He yawned, stretching, and added lightly, "He plays the flute well, too."